Remember My Name
by Gazooki
Summary: A day in the life of a monk who lives in solitude. One-shot


**Remember My Name**

Strange, isn't it, how quickly time passes? I still remember the Ruination as if it were yesterday. The screams of tormented souls ripped from their hosts' bodies will never be forgotten. Many years on from that moment, the day the Ruined King inflicted his curse upon these once-blessed isles, the lost souls still wander these lands. As do I, their keeper, Yorick Mori. I try to remember that name. The clothes on my back, the shovel in my hands, the waters around my neck, my name. These are all that remain of my past life.

One cannot say they have truly experienced suffering until they've spent what feels like an eternity secluded from all other life, living off rotten, twisted vegetables, the only things that I can be sure will not kill me if ingested. All flesh but my own perished with the Ruination, both man and beast succumbing to the Mist. I've been eating the same broth for so long, the taste of anything of real substance has been forgotten. Everything merely tastes of dirt now. But I must eat, give myself strength with which to complete my task.

Every day, I patrol these lands, following the river running from my former monastery, a path that takes me through the foreboding husks of long-dead villages, a grim reminder of the innocent lives the Ruined King took attempting to revive his beloved. I never really understood love myself. Never needed to. My order took a vow of celibacy in the belief that abstinence would save their souls from condemnation. In the end, no amount of moral superioritywould save them from the Mist. I am the only one left, the only one who resisted its call. I never did quite fit in with the others…

How quaint it is that my brothers now seek my counsel from beyond the grave. My curse is their only hope of salvation. The only hope these isles have. For many years, I helped the lost souls of the Blessed Isles to pass on, taking them to their final resting place. Now that the corruption has taken hold, these souls are bound to this realm, unable to pass on until the curse has been lifted and stripped of any form of sapience, taking on a ghastly shrunken appearance. Monstrous though they may be, their old faces are still distinguishable beneath those wild gnashing teeth. If they could see what they've become…

The estuary, the place where the curse ends its dominion, is nearby. I walk the barren shores, scouring the beaches for more lost souls. How long has it been since the last soul washed up here? I cannot recollect. Time means nothing anymore. I have no idea how long I've been walking. The seas washing upon the shore provide the only sounds of life, the only proof that this world has not been completely consumed by the darkness. I crouch down as the cold, salty water washes across my feet, and dip a hand in. Chilling to the touch though it may be, it's more inviting than anywhere on land. I must resist the urge to take a few steps further and let the ocean swallow me. I look up, hoping to see signs of life, a lost albatross perhaps, but nothing permeates the Mist. Even the sun itself has rejected these isles, leaving everything shrouded in grey.

I follow the coastline a while, dreaming of what may lie beyond. Is it peaceful out there? Do they fear the dead? My village certainly did. People would hide away when the Tallymen of Kindred came. Always in pairs, one wearing the face of a lamb, the other a wolf. One pushing the cart, the other ringing a bell and crying 'bring out your dead!'. That inseparable pair will one day come for me. May it be soon. I've lived far too long, seen far too many things. Sent so many souls away. If only the Tallymen had been able to take those too. It would have saved me this torment.

I, too, feared the Tallymen as a child. Not because it served as a reminder of my mortality, no. Because I knew that when they came, I would soon receive a visit from beyond the grave. It took a long time for me to understand that these visitors meant no harm, that they merely wished to be guided toward the beyond. Once I understood my role, I took it upon myself to fulfil my duties to my last breath. As I grew older, I realised that one day, I would be in their position. This allowed me to empathise with them. Imagining myself without a body, with no means of communicating with the world except a disturbed child. I could not refuse their last request. And I still will not.

As I pass beneath the White Cliffs, the winds carry a voice to my ears. A song. A requiem. I am not the only shepherd of lost souls who inhabits these isles. I am the one who had the gift of communication. Karthus was merely obsessed with death before he purposely transformed himself into a ghoulish abomination. The Mist tricked him into thinking that death is beautiful, that to be parted from one's body is true liberation. I am far from convinced. I stay close to the cliffs, hoping not to be noticed.

" _And all shall join our chorus_!" he preaches from on high. _Yes, join us!_ I hear the voice of the Mist itself reverberate in my skull. The Maiden will not give in. She follows me wherever I go, my eternal companion, a personification of the Mist itself whom I wear like a cloak. She travels with me in the hopes that one day, I will surrender. She does not realise that it is _I_ who is in control. I ignore both voices and press on. My task is yet to be done. I must take my leave of this island for now. My rowboat lies just past the White Cliffs, bobbing just off the shore. Using my shovel as an oar, I am able to travel between the isles, scouring the seas for floating corpses as the mist coils around the ruins of a lost civilisation.

Reaching the next isle, I see footprints in the sand. Or, to be more accurate, hoofprints. These mark the territory of the Ruined King's protector, Hecarim. The Ruination drove him madder than he already was, fusing him with his horse and creating an untiring beast who only lives to conquer and slaughter. Little is left for him to do here. But when the Harrowing comes, the time each year when the Black Mist spreads to the eastern shores of Valoran, Hecarim leads his army of conquered souls across the seas, besieging the settlements of the living and leaving only ruins behind. How do I know this? Because the Mist knows this. It shares all the secrets of the Isles with me, hoping that I will succumb to despair, give up my task, remove the vial from around my neck and join the howling, swirling mass of souls. But I am Yorick Mori, and I am better than that.

I can hear him laughing somewhere off in the distance. A strange sound, but the sort of sound one may expect to hear from a fusion of man and horse. It sits somewhere between a cackle and a neigh, and it sounds so utterly wrong, and yet incredibly fitting. I steel myself for an encounter with this maverick, gripping my shovel tightly. If I must fight him, I know the Mist will protect me. It will always protect me so long as it feels it can still tempt me. It will never give up. But neither will I. Not until I cleanse these lands. And if I have to go through Hecarim to do that, then so be it. I can handle myself in a fight.

This shovel is more than just a tool. The Order taught me well. We were more than mere monks, we were warriors. Protectors of lost souls. It was our sacred duty to ensure the dead passed on, and the shovels were given to us as a reminder of our values and ideologies. Forgetting one's shovel was often punishable by excommunication. Harsh, perhaps, but given the importance of our task, the elders saw this as necessary. To neglect one's duty was to directly defy the orders of a higher power. Alas, it seems the gods have abandoned this land. If they ever existed to begin with. Even so, I must not stop. Not until these lands are cleansed.

The Mist grows as I tread further inland. I can barely see ahead of me as the darkness shrouds everything. Through the ripples and coils, I see the grey landscape stretching on for miles. Perhaps I've gone a little too far from home. A few bodies remain scattered around, but their souls were claimed long ago. By whom, it is difficult to say. Have they joined Karthus in his eternal song? Do they now serve Hecarim, riding through the night? I ask the Maiden if either of them have passed through here recently.

 _They would not dare,_ she tells me. A cryptic reply, as always. I suspect the only ones allowed past this point are the ones who are swallowed whole by the Mist. That, or the ones who can resist its potency. That'd be just me, then. Am I coming close to the source of this depravity? Surely not. And besides, it would be useless for me to attempt to accomplish this task alone. The Ruined King will have an army, and so must I. I've sent many a soul into the fog, seeking the answers to my questions, and none have returned.

The Mist grows desperate, pulling at my neck. _Remove your shackles! Join us!_ And yet, I still refuse. I will see this task through to its bitter end. I march onwards, even without any spirits left to guide me. I've had to become stronger since the Ruination. The only way to survive the constant wailing of souls in torment is to grow resilient. I no longer feel fear. I have become desensitised. Death is merely a fact of life, and now I embrace it. Once these lands have been purged, I will finally be able to rest. Not a moment sooner.

Through the nigh-impenetrable fog, I spot the glint of a long-forgotten item sticking out of the ground, and do not hesitate to investigate. As I stand over it, I recognise the long, slender shape as being an instrument of war, A spear. Its owner is long gone, the Maiden tells me. _Kalista._ That was her name. She was another of the Ruined King's followers, one of the few willing to defy his orders on the day of the Ruination. Hecarim stabbed her in the back, quite literally, with her own spear, and after the cataclysm, she awoke as the embodiment of vengeance, caring not if what she did was just or not. She became a mythical figure in Valoran, one who would offer her services to fellow women in the servitude of vile men. Here, in my hand, is a relic of the Ruined King's rule. Perhaps one day, Kalista will be able to free herself of his influence…

I know why I am here. The Mist _wanted_ me to come here. The Mist wants to show me what happens to those consumed by revenge. The Mist wants me to let go. But I will not. I do not fight for vengeance. I fight for what is just, as a monk should. I fight to free all the souls that still walk this land, even demons such as Hecarim. Though his misdeeds shall never be forgiven, the least I can do for him is to end his agony. I shall guide Karthus into the light, and there, he shall discover the _true_ beauty of death. Kalista will find peace at last, her revenge exacted by my hand. I let her spear drop to the ground soundlessly, the Mist cushioning its fall. This is not my weapon to keep. I must stay true to my own ideals, fight for my own cause. Any benefits to the other souls that inhabit the Isles are purely incidental.

This isle is even more barren than the last. Not even ruins remain here. Everything burned to the ground when Hecarim's men rode along, desecrating the sacred isles to clear the path for their king. The Mist tells me that the one who guided the Ruined King to his destination was a cruel torturer by the name of Thresh, one who now delights in capturing souls and tormenting them for eternity. Again, I know the reason the Maiden is telling me this story. She likens my own situation to that of Thresh's latest victim, a bounty hunter named Senna. Another virtuous soul whose noble cause led her to her doom, a fate so much worse than death. _Why torture yourself when you can be free from all the world's pain?_ Because my honour prevents me from ever stopping.

Nothing is left here, so I set sail for the next island. This long, lonely errand would drive any other mortal insane, reducing them to a gibbering wreck. But I am stronger. I am more than capable. I've stayed the course this long. I can't exactly quit now, can I? Onto the next isle on the list. Not that there _is_ a list. Paper and pens no longer exist here. I was never particularly scholarly anyway. Our family was poor and I found it difficult to learn to read or write. That never mattered much when I had my own gifts, a gift that the other monks never forgave me for having. That was their downfall. They wished to speak with the dead, and the Mist gladly granted them that wish in exchange for their souls.

The next isle is as dead as all the others. Fishing villages wait for the next catch of the day, but it will never come, and even if it did, nobody would be able to claim it. Nothing is left here but the mountain. This marvel of nature stands in the middle of the island, its height so magnificent that its peak is shrouded in the thickest, darkest fog I have ever seen. That means something. Have I found the Ruined King? No. Of course not. The Mist would never knowingly bring me to him. The Maiden would have been screaming at me to turn back at once.

Who, then, lives atop the mountain? The Maiden provides the answer. _Mordekaiser. The Iron Revenant_. Not quite the king I was looking for, but a formidable opponent nonetheless. Mordekaiser's former dominion encompassed the land that the denizens of Valoran now refer to as Noxus, his Iron citadel forming the foundations of the Noxian capital. Many centuries ago, he was destroyed and his soul bound to these isles, but the Ruination freed him, and now, he continues to build an army of souls that surely vastly outnumbers anything I could muster. _Do not fight him,_ the Maiden implores. She only says this because she knows that if I fall in battle against Mordekaiser, my soul shall be bound to _his_ will, and not the Mist. _This_ is why the peak is pitch-black. The Mist seeks to contain that which it cannot control.

I think I've travelled far enough for... this span of time. Yes, I suppose I'll have to settle with that term. Regardless, I must be going before Mordekaiser's army of revenants marches down from the hall of the mountain king to take me to their master. The soup I left to boil should be ready by now. Perhaps as I eat, I can ruminate on the information I have collected, recollect the stories the Maiden has relayed. But above all, I must remember my name. My name. Yorick Mori. As long as I remember this, I will remember who I am and what purpose my existence has…


End file.
